


Full Song, No Break

by pharasitic



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: F/M, Lapdance, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16616111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pharasitic/pseuds/pharasitic
Summary: It's unfair, what they demand of you.





	Full Song, No Break

**Author's Note:**

> filling my own prompts like whoa!
> 
> _Sunstreaker - lapdance, being deprived._  
>  (It's unfair, what they demand of you.)

 

You make your way to your usual seat in the back of the dingy bar you’ve come to frequent. Appraising optics follow you from a few corners, their stares glance off of you as you sit down. You can’t bring yourself to care – there’s a reason you’re here, after all.

There must be a reason as to why you’d ignore the mechs in the back trading listed items, why you’d endure the faint smell of boosters filtering through your receptors, the sticky floors crusted over with energon. This, you know, isn’t an inevitability, it’s conscious _choice_.

From behind the bar, blue optics observe you carefully. Sideswipe doesn’t immediately react, he takes his time cleaning up his counter, topping off energon cubes, taking orders. You sit and wait - by now you know that neither twin responds well to being rushed.

Finally, and you know that this time you’ve gotten off lightly, he returns to the back, disappearing behind the metal meshes draped over the gaping hole in the wall.

When he returns, he’s not alone.

 

* * *

 

You remember the first time you stepped into this bar, the first time you saw him. Sunstreaker was as gorgeous then as he is now: bright plating softly glowing in the weak barlight, a solitary figure amidst the buzz of business. Your gaze was roaming about aimlessly until it found him and rooted itself to the sway of his hips, the tilt of his head right then and there.

He noticed. He always notices; for all his standoffishness he is starkly aware of whose attention he has and whose he _commands_. The once-over he gave you was short and unkind, dismissal obvious in his optics, and when he turned his back on you, that was when you were hooked.

At first, you didn’t know about the impromptu shows. You just returned whenever your function would allow you to, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of him. It just so happened that you got lucky one day: seated a few tables down from where a similarly hopeless prospect finally got a taste of the golden warrior.

It marked you.

You knew you had no chance at him, you weren't sure you wanted one, playing with fire like that. After a while, the feeling compounded: those Sunstreaker favoured never seemed to make it longer than a few months with their mind and frame and actual, literal sparks intact. Watching him was eclectic, however, so you kept going back: waiting, observing, savoring every glimpse. It was enough.

Yes, in the beginning, you were satisfied with only watching. You suspect this is what drew him to you in the first place.

 

* * *

 

He's undulating in your lap, strong arms slung around your neck.

It never takes him long to wind you up, with his plating dragging hot over yours and his hips spinning tight figure-eights into your hands. His vents keep stalling in rhythm, blasting you with hot air in turns, until you feel like you’ve been flayed from the inside out. You’re desperate to release the charge you’ve been carrying, ramped up by heat and friction.

He likes seeing you like this. His gaze is half-dimmed and fixed straight to yours, and you don't dare take your optics of his. Sunstreaker gets vengeful when people don't play by his rules.

It’s always an exact science with him: what you are allowed to touch, where you are allowed to look, how long you are allowed to keep him. It’s calculated precisely to your breaking point; just enough to give you a taste of what lies beyond your reach, to drive you insane with want. You’ve seen enough people succumb to it.

Sunstreaker never feeds into that desire. Instead, he capitalizes on it: it isn't completion he's after, so this is what he will deny his partners. He senses the weakness in others and drives a wedge into it for it to deepen. Touch, sight, taste: he'll limit them in his admirers and watch them fall apart so he can rebuild himself out of their broken pieces. It's a parasitic relationship that you are happy to supply with desperation and devotion. Paradoxically, this irritates him.

His thighs are glossy beneath a perfect finish and as of yet untouched, though they’re slowly rubbing themselves raw around yours, and you know you will walk out here marked bright-yellow, an easy target. Your arms clench to your sides, fingers numb in forced stillness while he hums into your audials.

You lose time, in between the beat of the music and the staccato his fingers scratch onto your back. A few times, Sunstreaker leans back, basking in the dim light, a soft golden shine accentuating every curve and angle. Blue light crawls across your face, and you're spellbound by the piercing stare that in this moment chooses to focus on you over the rest of existence.

You feel something hot melting through your lines. Sometimes, you think that he might want you back, that if you tried to, he'd let you--

But no, the creature in front of you is made of want and need, and from you he neither wants nor needs anything but your desire for him. He drinks it from your optics, and while he storms away every time you try to give him more, you know that he will never settle for less.

“No.“ he says, like he read it in your gaze. He seems pleased to deny you. A second later, he's glued back onto your chest, in a gesture that from anyone else would have read as affection. His chin is buried into the crook of your neck, the plate that covers his sex growing hotter as he thrusts harder at you.

You move your head just the slightest bit towards him, because you know what he needs, and a quick movement later, he's evaded you: body leaning to the side, prepped unevenly against your torso while his thighs are secured firmly around one of yours. The pressure is off your interface panel for now, but his maneuvering has put his mouth in direct contact with your right audial.

He's in his element now.

“I'm running hot,“ and his voice turned so throaty it comes out as a snarl. The sounds his desperate humping produces is still faintly audible over the background noise, but it makes no difference either way: you know every optic in the room is grafted onto him as if by force.

He licks a broad stroke over your face. “-and wet. The lube's dripping.“

It's not, of course. You're hyper-attuned to every one of his bodily functions, you'd have noticed the tangy smell, the moist slide. This is only play, but your want is burning deep enough to almost feel it regardless.

“It's uncomfortable,“ he decides finally, arms pressing your helm tighter and tighter into his plating like he wants to take it off at the neck.

It doesn't make you miss the drag of his valve cover retreating. Suddenly, there's soft, damp give atop your leg, a wet slip rubbing into your finish the more he moves his hips. He moans right into your sensors and you feel soft lips parting around the curve of your thigh until your microsensors register the hole between them clenching against living metal. 

A slight twitch betrays your agitation. It moves your leg just a fraction, and for a moment you're afraid Sunstreaker will take that as his cue to leave, but impossibly, he seems to be in a generous mood today.  
He only leans in, and a slight puff of air against your cheek can't warn you of the way he presses deeper into you, slowly rubbing his dripping valve up and down your leg until he gets settled in a position that leaves you keenly feeling his anterior node.  
  
"I fucked myself today", he rumbles into your audials, finally close enough to drown out the speakers. "In front of a mirror. Started with my fingers, got myself all wet and open", and you can't banish that image from your head anymore, because you simultaneously feel it, how open his little hole is, how drenched your thigh has become from all the lubricant he's leaking.  
  
"Got too excited," he continues and huffs a puff of laughter against your ears, a joke you're not invited to share. "Overloaded too quickly. My valve gets sensitive after coming."  
  
He vents heavily against the side of your neck. You don’t know why he’s telling you this, considering that he’s loathe to reveal even the slightest bit of information that would grant you a closer glimpse at him. It must be then, that this knowledge doesn’t mean anything to him, that that’s why he shunts it to you like an unwanted child. He paints a picture in your head that he’s- that doesn’t---

And still, you can picture it, him working elegant black digits into his squelching valve too hard to stop, pounding and spreading his lips until the hurt he seems to live on draws him into a pleasure beyond compare. Until his fingers can't stop shaking even inside his own body, until he shudders just taking them out, gingerly stroking the area around his painfully hard node. Your hands twitch where they’re hanging uselessly off your frame.  
  
"Sideswipe punishes me when I do that. He keeps tying me up so that I can't come anymore." He sighs longingly, head bowing forward, cheek rubbing against your neck. "But he wasn't there earlier. So you know what I did?"  
  
You don’t answer, because this isn’t about you, it never is. You just listen to the way his armor brushes against yours as he leans in even further, until his long, sinuous body is pressed entirely against your frame. Chest to chest, you feel the anticipation drumming through every strained cable and, deep inside, a faint electric pulse that you're not willing to contemplate.  
  
"I took my toy," he rasps, snuggled into your chest like he wants to make himself a second home there, "and made myself scream."  
  
You shudder, vents finally hiccuping for all the restraint you put on them, and the motion seems to draw him into the barest hint of an overload. In your lap, you feel him wildly clenching, his thighs around his valve around your thigh, a sucking motion destined to make you lose yourself. Your hands draw into fists, and still you barely resist pressing them tightly into his waist.

 

After a while, Sunstreaker seems to calm down. He lays his head on your shoulder, face turned away, and sighs a little tiredly. From below you hear a squirting noise as he rubs himself in his own fluids, as if for comfort.

This is the only time he grants himself and you a little bit of rest. His optics shine a glossy blue light onto your shoulders; every now and then it flickers tiredly as your head finally drops back, cables loosening from the iron hold you had over them.

You haven’t overloaded. He won’t allow you that, but you still think you’ve gotten more out of this than he has.

But this, too, shall pass: Soon enough, he’s up again, limbs regaining their dangerous strength and roughly shoving you against the back of your chair. You calmly stare into the glower marring his face, it’s the only indiscretion you grant yourself in this.

It only infuriates him more, and for once you feel real hate in the way his hand claws itself into your neck while he’s getting up on shaky legs. A final squeeze and a disgusted glance later, he’s stalking away, his steps as sure as ever.

You look after him. Your glance doesn’t stutter at his hips like it usually does - instead you drill your gaze into the back of his head. Graceful helmvents obscure any hint of an expression, but you know he notices, and despite or because you know it bothers him to no end, you continue staring until he’s reached the safety of the bar, until his brother's there to shield him from your gaze, a stare as penetrant as yours locked on your face.

_Back off._ You understand the message.

Your drink is stale where you left it. You pick it up nevertheless, even though it doesn’t turn your mouth any less dry. Peripherally, you observe black servos run over golden plating, making halt around a slender neck. You try not to watch as a lingering kiss is pressed against Sunstreaker’s downturned forehead, but your processor focuses on that single strand of activity in the murky bar, weaves it apart again and again until it’s as familiar to you as if you’d done it yourself.

Sunstreaker turns his head to you, just before he leaves the bar. His optics are glimmering unsteadily, his mouth is still warped in an expression you can’t wholely decipher.  
  
"I want to be wanted," he seems to say, "I want to be needed. And I want to leave that need in the dust."  
  
You just don't know what to do.  


 

 

 

 

 


End file.
